Ho ho humbug

The last several years, I've found myself growing increasingly glum every December. Some might say "oh you have seasonal affective disorder,” but I don't think that is possible in sunny southern California. I speculated to a friend on Facebook, that seeing as our small children have grown, we don't try as hard to kindle the magic of the season in our homes. We are not pretending that Santa is coming. We don't write notes to him or put plates of cookies out. Perhaps, someday when the grandchildren come along, that will change.  

While I have rejected the church attendance that was required of me as a child, I do miss the magic of the midnight candlelight services and music that ushered in the season. I find myself looking on the internet for local Christmas concerts, to see if that would dispel my ennui.  I doubt the family would go with me. Maybe I could claim I was out buying gifts. Never mind, forget the concert. I'm still avoiding holiday music on the radio.

I'm not as excited about giving gifts. In fact, I haven't purchased ANY yet. Since mom died, I have more money than I ever had in my life, but I'm so terribly anxious about spending it. My husband's employer is about to close their doors any day now and buying stuff that we really don't need seems irresponsible. The job search has been yielding some action, but no offers.

It's supposed to be a time to count your blessings. I've had quite a few this year. Our oldest daughter was married in September and it was a beautiful event with our very special friends and family gathered around. Our youngest has pulled himself out of his academic funk and is earning mostly A's and a B or two. Our house still stands and all the appliances work.  The dog is getting old, but is healthy.  My roses are blooming in December and the chickens are still laying beautiful eggs.  

 Our middle child still struggles – but is blessedly alive and unscathed – despite the fact that she was in a serious car accident Sunday night. I don't know that she realizes how lucky she is or understands that my favorite vehicle – a 16 year old Suburban with only 150K miles – sacrificed itself for her life. It is probably going to be totalled by the insurance company tomorrow. They tried to issue a check to me today - that would just cover body damage, but didn't address the potential damage to the suspension and axle.  It's at a repair shop for further evaluation which I think that is going to be the death knell to my car.  I'm really sad about that.  

I've never thought it was a good idea to become emotionally attached to a vehicle, but damn, we had some great trips in that car. I need it to pull our Airstream. I need it to bring ladders and scaffolds to worksites. We put our canoe on top. I hauled band instruments for the middle school. I need it to pick up our Christmas tree next weekend. I'm gonna miss that car.

Something else to miss? My parents. Despite the fact that I am severely lacking in holiday spirit, I brought the decorations up from the basement. I had a particular item in mind – the nativity set from my childhood. I brought it back from Portland when my mom was dying last Christmas. All the parts were there, including two sheep and three broken leg pieces. That's when I started losing it. My parents both gone, a potential financial crisis, my favorite car smashed up and now three broken legs on two sheep. Could it get any worse? Of course it could. I have two dear friends that have suffered devastating personal losses this fall and my next door neighbor is losing his house to foreclosure. In comparison, I am spectacularly fortunate.

A damaged car and broken sheep don't seem like much to cry over, but cry I did. I retreated out to my workshop to get the superglue and sat there feeling spectacularly sorry for myself. Once done with the pity party, I wiped my eyes on my scarf (it's just saltwater), I wiped my nose on my sleeve (easier to wash) and went back inside to face the family and fix the sheep.

If my life was a sitcom on TV, a series of mishaps would occur, a miracle would be revealed and I would find the true meaning of Christmas basking in the joy of my family. My children would have a new appreciation for how very lucky they are and someone besides me would wash the dishes after dinner.

Life for most of us falls somewhat short of that. So I'll leave you with my Christmas wishes:

1. A new and better job for my husband.
2. Michelle and Marianne find peace and eventually joy and Rick finds a new home.
3. My next car proves to be just as self-sacrificing if called upon.
4. That the superglued sheep hold it together for at least this month.
5. I regain my sense of consumerism and go shopping.  The economy needs the help.

Am I losing my mind?

Some people worry about cancer or the economy, but I've got something else to think about.

There's a word for it . . . . but I can't remember it. I need - three items – I can see them in my mind – but can't say the words that represent them. I walk into a room to get something – but I have no idea what. Eventually, I find the word, I come up with the three items and I recall what I was going to get. But maybe someday I won't.

My Aunt in 1963.

My brother recently sent me a copy of Mom's brain autopsy. She was part of a study examining brains for Alzheimer's – fortunately there were few signs. Dad was fine too. He was exhibiting high cognitive function (& telling jokes) right up until his last fifteen minutes. But, my aunt – whom I take after, was not fine.  She was a brilliant woman, scholar and world traveller. She forgot who we were. She lost her way on familiar streets. She eventually failed to remember how to swallow the very food in her mouth. It was the ultimate irony. Two sisters, the one who used her mind lost it and the other . . .  stayed relatively intact.  (See “Do Different”.)

I suffer from chronic migraines and recently they've been getting more frequent, especially the ones with visual auras. It's mostly likely due to hormonal fluctuations. Having the auras puts me at increased chance for stroke. The Imitrex I take has its own host of side effects not to mention the over-riding feeling that my brain just isn't functioning well. (It's not.) People ask me questions and I just stare stupidly at them, trying to process what they are asking.  Trying to come up with an appropriate answer proves difficult.   I try to go without the meds, but the pain is just as mind numbing. My snappy comebacks no longer snap.

My refinishing work is probably not helping me either. Chemical strippers, stains, and varnishes all have a vaporous effect on my health that can't be ignored. I inhale all sorts of materials when I sand. Yes, I sometimes wear a respirator to reduce my risks – but I often don't. I love the smells – but they give me headaches. It might even be killing me. Lead paint? Is it making me stupid? Asbestos – lung cancer? Fiberglass? Paint thinner?  What am I doing to me?

Before you inundate me with pleas to see a doctor – I do. I'm about to get new glasses to cut down on eye strain. I see my GP and OB/gyn every year and have every damn test they recommend. I even ask for a lead-level test every other year and that's always been fine. My blood and urine couldn't be better. My mitral and tricuspid heart valves leak a bit – but not enough to be concerned about. All in all, I'm in great shape. I exercise regularly, drink in moderation and sleep well. So why am I worried?

Here's the thing: If I lose my mind – to dementia – where will it go? Where will I go? Aware of the changes taking place, my aunt elected to move to a senior living community, but things quickly deteriorated. On a group shopping trip to downtown San Francisco, she disappeared, only to be located at the opera house trying to attend the ballet, where she once had season tickets. While it may have been frustrating for her caregivers, it is not surprising that she drifted down familiar paths and habits. She soon had to be moved to a more secure care facility.  Libraries and ballets were lost to her.  No more long walks in the Berkeley hills.  For her own safety, life had to be limited.

If I lost my mind, what things I loved best would be lost to me? Playing the flute: would I still be able to read music? I'll just make it up.  Improvisation will take on new importance.   Power tools would definitely be off limits.   Reading books:  would I just stare at the pages uncomprehending? Gardening? I can see me now, cutting off flowerheads like Morticia Adams and proudly presenting the denuded stems to my family.  They would be horrified and I would laugh maniacally.  Maybe I'd even wear red hats and purple dresses.  Bat-shit crazy.  That would be me.  Let's have fun with it.

2006

I last saw my Aunt several months before her death in 2006.  I had no idea it would be so soon.  She was thin, but seemed healthy.  I could tell she didn't know us, but was very pleased to have visitors.  She was given some small bath soaps and she so enjoyed smelling the packages but puzzled over unwrapping them.  Despite the obvious deterioration, my aunt never lost her innate graciousness. Her delight in simple pleasures was still there, perhaps expressed in a more childlike way, but never-the-less, she seemed happy. I hope I will be too.

Artist's Statement

(Graduating Senior Project June 2000)
Digging in the past, I'm republishing my artist's statement from my senior project.  You many note that it was all about the smell of darkroom chemicals, something I haven't used in years.  The digital age has changed how I create art, but hasn't changed how I feel about it.

Emergent Nude 1999

I associate art with odor.

My early memories as a five year old are posing in my grandmother's studio, breathing in the sharp sweet smells of oil paint and turpentine. She would work quietly and swiftly, trying to finish the portrait she had started of me from a photograph. A few years later I am in my dad's darkroom, earning my first Girl Scout merit badge for photography. The pungent smells of stop-bath and fixer sting my sinuses and make my eyes water. I didn't like it then, but years later it evokes special memories of that all too rare time alone with my dad.

Bodie 1996

Since then, I have worked in a number of different mediums. Whether it is the sweetness of freshly milled wood or the infusion of paint and thinner, the greasy smell of theatrical make-up or the tanginess of printmaking, each discipline has its own special aromas. Now that I've settled on photography, it's in the darkroom, with the scent of chemicals swirling around me, that I am the happiest.

Fort Point 1986

What excites me about making art is the process. While some people are stimulated by the anticipation of creation, others are only satisfied by the results. My fulfillment is found in the activity - being immersed in the aroma of the chemistry, the rhythmic rocking of the trays, the ticking of the timers and the changing interplay of the lights. Working in the darkroom is a sensual dance of creativity. It is a solitary labor of love.

Andrew 1986

My art speaks of that solitude and sensuality. Whether it is a single human figure painted by light or an old musty bed in an uninhabited building, my images are conjured up out of the darkness, smelling of sweat or reeking of age. Cannonballs sit stacked in readiness for a war that will never come. An elderly lady sits waiting for grandchildren that rarely visit. A baby reaches its sticky fingers, trying to capture dust motes floating in the air. Art is a poignant fragrance that evokes a memory of the past.

Remembering Michael

Last week, the world lost a good guy.  Michael Ray Vega was killed by a hit and run driver as he left his job at the Apple Genius bar.  The driver is still at large.  

This is my remembrance.

It was October 1996 when our two families pulled their kids from their regularly scheduled classes at Hawthorne Elementary for a long weekend of camping and fishing in the Sierras. The destinations? Rock Creek Lake and Silver Lake in the June Lakes Loop. Rock Creek Lake is very high (in altitude) and very cold in the fall. We fished by day and shivered in our tents at night – it was so cold that our water bottles were frozen solid by morning. We had our challenges - the propane didn't work so well first thing in the morning or late in the evening. Early one morning a bear visited our campsite and we were awakened by Michelle and the kids banging pans and yelling at it to scare it away. The bear tried to make off with Andy's tackle box. Powerbait must smell pretty good to a bear.

During this time, we had a chance observe the Vega family in all their boisterous glory. Michael had his own role in the family – protective big brother to Danielle, catalyst to Jordan's misdeeds and deliberate thorn in his parent's sides. He was always ready with a joke or a comeback - sporting that cocky smile even at a young age, and always dancing just out of arm's reach and retribution.

On this trip, I had an opportunity to see another side of Michael. My husband and I decided to hike further up the mountain to the Little Lakes Valley – our own kids declined the pleasure, but Michael wanted to come with us. At 9 years old, I wasn't sure how he'd do on the hike, but Michael surprised me. He kept up without complaining. He was determined and focused. He'd left the joker behind in our campsite and brought a different kid on that hike. He was thoughtful and appreciative of our surroundings. He loved all the alpine lakes and little wild flowers. My husband recalls that he had a camera and was taking photographs. He seemed to really love the high mountain peaks and the challenges of hiking at altitude.

Michael  on the Little Lakes Valley trail.

We had more adventures on that trip – renting a boat on Silver Lake and staying in the cabins. We went to the ghost town at Bodie and saw naked foreigners bathing at Hot Creek, but the best moments for me were on that hike with Michael. I was really glad we took him on that hike – to be able to see the Sierras through someone else's eyes gives you a new clarity and appreciation. It also gave me a new appreciation for Michael.

Life is so full of paradoxes. We are preparing for our oldest daughter to get married next week. (She and Michael were in Kindergarten together.) One moment I am so full of joy preparing for the event, but the next I remember that Michael is gone and my friend dear Michelle is experiencing the worst of heartaches imaginable. I start to feel that nagging despair again, but it occurs to me that Michael would NOT want that. His legacy must be Peace, Love and Joy. That is my wish to you Michelle, Andy, Jordan and Danielle. Peace, Love and Joy.

Surprise Me

"It's just a number"

I've heard that twice in the last couple of days. For any female fast approaching her 50^th birthday, the phrase rings hollow.

My immediate family either doesn't realize it's my 50^th or they think that they shouldn't mention it. Doesn't make a difference. It's on my mind.

They only started asking me a few days ago what I wanted. My requests are pretty simple (in my mind). 1.)A blu-ray player so I could watch my daughter's box set of Game of Thrones. 2.)Some TV trays, so we can eat dinner in the living room more comfortably ('cause the diningroom table is always covered in projects).

3.) And tickets to a Giants game at home in SF. From my husband's reaction, you would have thought I'd asked for the moon. He would have to “pick” a date, “plan” a trip, and “purchase” tickets. Oh my. For a guy who can plan, approve and execute multi-million dollar business deals, acquisitions and mergers, from our home office in his bathrobe, surely, arranging to go to a baseball game in another city shouldn't be that difficult. Surely?

Then there's the daughters. They keep asking me what I want. I keep repeating the above three things. I mentioned to one of them, weeks ago, that it might be nice to have some neighbors over to celebrate, have a small (or a big) party. (Apparently that idea did not resonate.) They've been asking me what I want to do for dinner. Dine here or go out? If we went out, where to go? Do you like this restaurant or that? Sushi? Brunch? Mexican?

****

I am the one who always makes the plans here. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, vacations. And when they go wrong, I get the flack.  So . . . I told them all (Dad included) that I didn't want to make the plans for my own birthday:

“Surprise me.”

Apparently, they don't know how to do that, because they are still asking me what I want to do. What I want, is NOT to have to plan my own fucking birthday!

****

Ten years ago still sticks in my mind. We had been planning a big party for my 40^th birthday, but a collapsed mainline sewer and the resulting sudden lack of money canceled all party plans. That birthday was particularily depressing, with nothing being planned, not even dinner. I ended up having to pick up the phone and order pizza for my own damned dinner. They gave me some gifts, though, what,  I don't remember. I probably had a cake, but I may have made it myself. What I do remember is feeling spectacularily sorry for myself.

****

So here I am 10 years later, and not much has changed. The effort that I've put into other people's birthday celebrations is unlikely to be reciprocated. Perhaps I've made them too reliant on me. I've let them be too passive. I've failed to make my needs and expectations clear.

Now, I could be wrong. They may have something really marvelous planned for me. A surpise party at a restaurant with all my friends there. (It wouldn't be hard to find them through Facebook.) Maybe my husband has purchased me a really hot, red sportscar (there is money available). Perhaps a crew is going to show up and install the kitchen counter I've been lusting after for the last 12 years (Home Depot has the measurements). Or maybe they got me one of those amazing kinetic wind sculptures that we saw in Zion. That should be easy. Totally available online. No-one would even have to leave the house.

But, in my heart of hearts, I don't think any of that is going to happen. We've programmed our families' all too well. They believe that moms are content with less. We eat the heels from the last loaf of bread, we give our kids the last piece of cake. We wear underwear with the stretched out elastic because the child needed some new rollerskates. Our bras have holes in them because getting you that video game seemed more important than a new foundation garments. We survive on smiles and hugs, not bon bons and flowers.

****

Fifty is not just a number. It's when AARP starts cramming your mailbox with retirement planning offers. It's when menopause is not just a theory. It's when you can no longer fit into that 40-49 demographic checkbox. It's when you don't just “look good” any more. It's when you “look good for your age.”

****

Yes, it would have been nice to have a party. But parties are usually better in theory than practice. It's an added expense. There's always stuff to clean up. Someone usually drinks too much. Feelings are hurt.

We are hosting a big party in September, our oldest daughter's wedding and I'm on the hunt for a “mother of the bride” dress. It's a challenge. Don't want it to be too formal or too casual. Can't have it too frumpy, but sexy mama is a no-no. Too elegant and classy might make the groom's mother look bad by contrast, but shabby chic might impart of lack of respect to the seriousness of the event. I'm leaning towards bohemian - kind of a crazy, fuck you, I'll wear what I want cause I'm over 50 style. There's something to be said for the Red-Hat ladies. They aren't quiet or self-sacrificing. They've left their mothering years behind them and are doing what they want, when they want, in hideous colors.

****

I saw a TV reporter interviewing a woman recently. I don't recall the news story, but I do recall being fascinated by her. She was loud. She was black. She was not afraid to tell everyone what she thought. If she wanted to have a birthday party, she would not have been quiet about it. She would have told everyone, and made damned sure it happened.

That what I want for my birthday. I want to be her.  

Do Different

It was my first mother's day since my mom died. My first without the sinking feeling that I really “ought” to call my mom. The first without the awkward telephone conversation that makes it patently obvious that we don't have anything to say to each other.

Having her gone is a relief.

There, I said it. Will I burn in hell now? Will she haunt me for being a bad daughter? Would she care enough to bother?

Mother's day comes around every year and the media lays it on thick. “Show her how special she is!” “Your Mom, no-one loves you more.” “Doesn't your Mom deserve the best?” Facebook feels even worse.  So many friends change their profile photos to their mother's. Everything is pink flowers and gushing happiness. If your mom is still alive – she is your greatest support. If she is gone – she will always be an inspiration. Mom – always there for you. That's great. I'm really happy for you.

But what about those of us who didn't have a warm, supportive mommy-daughter relationship? What about those of us who dreaded the obligatory phone calls and visits to keep up the pretense? I'm not talking about abusive relationships. There's no excuse for abusing your kids, but there's a whole 'nother grey area of women that yearned for nurturing but didn't get it. Wanted support, but didn't receive it.

I have a few friends who feel the same way. We meet at women's camping trips or over coffee. We talk in hushed tones, in case someone should overhear us. Once we find each other, it's like having a long lost sister. Someone who shares your secret. Someone to help fill that gap inside that mom didn't. Someone who “gets it” too.

We had mothers who were not particularily affectionate. They were not interested in our academic or social successes. They didn't notice when we were upset. There were no hugs and kisses when you got home from school. She wasn't in the audience at every school concert bursting with pride. She didn't take photos of you and your best friend when you tried makeup for the first time, or a movie of you riding a two-wheeler successfully. She didn't keep track of your boyfriends or braid your hair. She didn't . . . she just didn't.

****

My mom was particularily relieved when I got married – there was no longer any risk of me being a financial (or emotional) burden on her and dad – though I had moved out on my own when I was 18. She didn't seem to care who I married, just as long as I did. She and dad didn't encourage a college bound career path for me. Typing lessons and a secretarial job was their best advice.  If I wanted more, I was on my own.

A doting grandmother, she was not.  I had such fond memories of my grandmother (her mother!) – she was loving and supportive, affectionate, genuinely interested in my life. My mom, however, spent more time talking about the stock market and the weather than asking about her grandchildren. I'd try to fill her in on their activities, but my efforts were always one sided. On the rare occaisions when there were visits, she would greet them politely – in a vague manner – and return back to her perusal of the Wall Street Journal or reading Harlequin romances.

When I was a teenager, I was embarrassed by her – she looked so old – grey hair in pincurls, housecoats and ankle socks. I had friends whose moms listened to Elvis, wore polyester pants and snapped their gum. I knew girls with cool moms. Someone once remarked that she saw me at the mall with my grandmother. I was mortified.

****

Now, the irony here is that mom was really just a child herself. It took me years to realize it. It took having children of my own to understand what a self-absorbed petulant child looks like. I don't think she ever grew up and learned how to gracefully put other people first. She never found joy in self-sacrifice and giving to others.

Like other women with “mother issues,” we compensate by doing different. Some of us are a little more permissive, some a little stricter. Some of us are deeply affectionate while others give their kids alotta space. We try to be what we think our kids need.

My mom didn't like to attend my band concerts. She didn't “care” for the music and eventually stopped going. By the time I got to junior high, she refused to drive me, expecting me to hitch a ride with the girl up the street that I hadn't spoken to in years. I ended up walking, in the dark, by myself. Those experiences resonate. No matter what the music is, I am there for my kids, always. Good moms don't attend soccer games, music concerts and plays expecting professional quality entertainment. We go because we care.

Which is what I thought it came down to. She didn't care. She didn't care enough to put her children's needs ahead of her own. She didn't care enough to see that it hurt me. In turn, I became an angry, resentful teenager. My sarcastic tongue became my offence and defense. Her poor hearing was my target as I'd hurl all manner of insults at her under my breath. My father and brother would catch my comments and I would feel their dissaproval, but it didn't stop me. My mom was so stupid and ignorant, and I thought I was so smart and cunning.

****

It's taken me years to come to grips with her. I wonder why she was the way she was. Her cousin, who had known her since forever, thought she'd lacked oxygen at birth. It was pure speculation, but plausible. She had bad hearing – chronic tinnitus – and that may have had a lot to do with her poor communication skills and her lack of appreciation for really good music. She'd only listen to classical music, mainly baroque (no high or low registers). She didn't enjoy Gershwin or Bernstien. She didn't like jazz or big band. 

She had low self-esteem. Being a C average student with two older sisters, one extremely intelligent and the other beautiful and talented, didn't help. Yet, she could add and multiply columns of figures in her head. She was an aggressive board game player but couldn't divide fractions when making a recipe. She was socially awkward yet financially brilliant.

Much has been made, recently, of diagnosing children with autism and asperger's syndrome and it's certainly possible that if mom were born today, she might neatly fit into one of these conditions. She would have had counseling and social skills classes. She could learn how to converse appropriately and understand how to be affectionate with children. A medical diagnosis could explain a lot, and might even ease the ache inside me when I wonder why my mother didn't care more.  Maybe she couldn't.

****

Mom entered the hospital a week before Christmas. My brother and I dropped everything to be there. The congestive heart failure that she'd lived with for the past 15 years had finally taken its toll and it was time to put her in hospice. We cleared out her apartment, sorting through over 25 years of accumulation in those two rooms, discarding thousands of pages of carefully kept financial records and saving just a coulple of shoe boxes that held grandchildrens' photos, undisplayed. I shipped home odds and ends of kitchen utensils that I remember from my childhood but gave away every stitch of her clothing. We were interviewd by hospice nurses who wanted to know her habits, favorite foods, TV shows, and nearby friends. I didn't know. I hadn't kept track. I was as guilty as her.

****

I flew home on the last flight Christmas Eve to be with my own family, leaving her to die alone. In the dark of the plane, under the roar of the engines, I cried. In the days following her death on Christmas day, I cried some more. My husband didn't quite understand why I was grieving for a woman who had never bonded with me. I didn't miss her. I wasn't desperately sad that she was gone. I was relieved.

****

A friend of mine was wondering how she was going handle it when her “uncaring” mother was gone. My advice to her was this:

Grieve for the mother you needed but never had.

Grieve for the relationship that should have been but never was.

Let people see you cry, even if they don't understand the truth behind it.

Be a different mom.

Lost & Found

Roxey J. wife of J.H. Shaffer
1835-1875

So Roxy has been found. At least, someone has photographed her gravestone for me. (Go to www.findagrave.com – the volunteer photographers are a godsend.) It's a bigger monument than I expected. That's good – they cared about her – at least enough to purchase a sizable stone. But it still doesn't explain why she's alone. The other cemetery, closer to town, has at least ½ dozen family members including her husband, his second wife and numerous children.

I've been thinking a lot about cemeteries and gravestones. Since Mom died in December, my brother and I have been dealing with her estate, as well as ensuring that her internment was according to her wishes. She was laid to rest (unattended) in a cemetery in Lebanon Oregon, ironically, not next to her husband, but with her mother-in-law in between them. (She knew this would be the case.) We've tried asking the cemetery what Dad's gravestone looks like, so we can match up mom's but to no avail. Turns out, she never ordered one for him. It's sad, but I'm not surprised. She faced his passing four years ago with very little outward emotion. (They'd been married 50 years.) She removed most of his personal effects from their apartment promtly and went on about her life - watching the stock market rise and fall and calling me every couple of weeks for our usual stilted and obligatory attemtps at conversation. Dad was never discussed again.

Fish Lake

I had always thought that I wanted to be cremated and my ashes taken to my favorite place in the world. My family knows where it is, I've spoken of it often enough, but it would be a burdensome trip for someone. 

 There is a new trend in “eco-internments,” not only do they skip the emblaming and use a plain pine casket, but you can also forget about the stone vault, the shroud is biodegradable and you are planted in a part of the cemetery where there are no headstones, just an occasional bench in a lovely meadow for contemplative musings. (http://www.ecoburials.ca/) My grandparents and great-grandparents are buried at this particular cemetery, but in the traditional historic part. Reading the fine print, they don't even recommend cremation due to the significant amount of fuel needed for burning a body thoroughly. Hmmmm . . . .

Cobourg Union Cemetery, Cobourg, Ontario, Canada

Back to Roxy, according the cemetery record and her headstone, she was just 5 days shy of her 40^th birthday, leaving behind at least 5 children including my grandfather, Edgar, who was not even two years old at the time. Ironically, Edgar died when his own son, another Edgar (my father) was just three years old. Life can be very fragile.

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off . . .

 . . . and start all over again.

Swing Time is one of my favorite Astaire/Rogers movies.  When I was a teenager, I used to stay up late at night to catch them on UHF channels - way before you could collect these things on VHS tapes.  (When my parents were out of town, I also would listen to Edith Piaf torch songs and drink my folks Gallo jug wine until I would cry and imagine myself dying in a Paris gutter with my tragic heroine.) I was an eclectic soul.   In the above scene, Ginger is encouraging Fred not to give up, perseverance will win the day.

One of my children has been going through some pretty serious challenges.  Several failed romances, some serious career setbacks and a genetic predisposition to down one's sorrows in addictive behaviors left her teetering on an edge that was no longer acceptable to her mother.  I blew the whistle, called a time-out and really meant it this time.

Of my three kids, she's the most ambitious.  Her early life was all about ballet until chronic tendonitis ended that trajectory at age 12.  She moved onto music - playing the flute, and then conducting, setting some pretty high goals, and always achieving them.  She's traveled world as the head drum major for some of the biggest parades on this planet.  But all that glory has has all come to an end at the tender age of twenty-one.

Some of this was her own decision, some was out of her hands.  Some was bad luck, but much of it was the glass ceiling that roofed the old boys club.  Life can be pretty cruel.

Now she finds herself back home, under the care of a family doctor, a chiropractor, a therapist, a psychiatrist and her family.  She is fragile and we are keeping her close.

As I hoped, her overriding ambition is coming through. Although she has dropped out of school and is re-evaluating her career goals, she is returning to her former love of dance.  Despite a lingering headache from new medications and a stomach ache that doesn't go away, she's off to a beginning waltz class tonight.  "Mom, I may not be able go professional with ballet anymore, but I bet I can go a long way with ballroom."

That's my girl.  Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.

Stripping yourself of your rights

I escorted a group of 7th grade boys (mine included) to a local park today to run around the rocks and trees and just "be boys" instead of staring at their computer screens.  We got to the closest park only to discover some sort of fire fighting crew clearing trash and underbrush.  They had shovels and picks, one had a chainsaw and another was dragging away a dirty rug we saw there earlier in the week.  They were all wearing orange and staring at us in a rather challenging way, as if daring us not to approach any closer.  Only then did I realize that they were there courtesy of the California Department of Corrections - prison labor if you will.

Sensing this was not a place to linger, we crossed the bridge to the park on the other side of road and I perched myself on a rock as planned to read my book and quietly supervise the the pre-teen revelry.  My gaze lifted to the other park across the 4 lane roadway and saw the prison crew had taken a break and was similarly perched on rocks . . . . watching me, watching them.

They were a good distance away, and I have to assume properly supervised, so I didn't feel threatened but wondered, what choices led them to the other side of the road.  I did some research on Dept. of Corrections Fire Crews and found that the candidates are only chosen if they are non-violent offenders.  (good!) They can earn $1.45 - $3.90 per day, not much when you consider how hard they may work sometimes, but, they are outside on a beautiful day instead of locked in a cell. Perhaps they should pay us for the privilege?

What are their crimes?  My guesses include car theft, robbery, welfare or insurance fraud, drug offenses, or vandalism.  When we lived near the orange groves, I used to marvel at the "industrious" people that sold bags of oranges on the roadside.  We used to call their product "BMO - black market oranges" cause we knew they acquired them illegally - but I figured if I was really desperate for money to feed my family, I would sell BMO too.  What ever it took.  It's a shitty economy and people are desperate.  Who am I to judge?

So I sat there, in my newly purchased orange T-shirt from Target, gazing at the prison labor in their old sweaty orange T-shirts - grateful that my choices have been better than theirs - but all of us appreciating a beautiful day.

There but for the grace of god go I.

My name might not be Roxy, but I am a stripper.

A couple of months ago, I was talking to the manager of my mother's bank and she asked me what I did for a living.  I replied with a sly smile "I'm a stripper".  Enjoying the initial look of shock and then strained polite interest on her face, I hastened to explain that I strip paint -  using heat and chemicals and brute force and tiny dental picks.

Writing about stripping made me want to strip some more, so I did.  Got out the chemicals this morning and started working again on the swinging, five panel door that adjoins my kitchen.  I started stripping it at least a year ago, and am only now getting back to it.  The kitchen has been a work in progress since we moved in 11 years ago.  Twice, we've been close to getting a new counter but held back at the last minute.  I'm pretty close again.  Got the hubby to Home Depot to look at counter top materials.  My heart wants soapstone, but it's very expensive to get on the west coast.  Second choice is carrera marble.  That is probably the more traditional choice for this location, but most contractors try to talk us out of it: "Too soft, stains easily".  But it's great for rolling out pastry.  (Note: I never roll out pastry.)

Regarding Roxy,  I started searching for her again.  I think I found her burial place:

It's a cemetery in Fairfield Illinois.

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=67945016

No surprises there, I knew the date and city of her death.  The odd thing is that there are no obvious family members listed at the cemetery.  No children who have died in infancy.  Not her parents. The rest of the family is buried at a different cemetery. Why is Roxy alone at 39?

Who is Roxy Turner?

No, my name is not Roxy Turner, but sometimes, I wish it was.  Roxy Turner was my paternal great-grandmother and from the moment I heard her name, I thought she sounded like a stripper.  I wondered what her existence was like to have turned to a life of revealing her body to make ends meet.  Did she enjoy it?

Of course,  as far as I know, she was never a stripper.  In fact, I know very little about her.  My monthly payment to ancestry.com has turned up very little on Roxy Turner.  She married John Shaffer at an early age, had several children with him and died in her thirties.  He remarried and nothing more has been noted about her.  Who was she?  An enigma.  Much like the inside of my mind.  To be revealed.  Slowly, layer by layer.